You walk into the room and head straight for it, almost not realizing that your body is moving on its own accord. You walk, quickly, determined to it. Your hand is shaky, knees are weak. People in your way are thrown aside. You need this. You need another fix. You make eye contact fleetingly with the dealer. "3, please." He hands them over and try to steady your hands so that you don't miss a thing as you quickly devour them. The build-up is amazing, the high like nothing you've had before. But you come down much too quickly.

I wasn’t aware that only in Texas do we have an actual condition attached to the state lottery. I guess I figured that the lotteries across the nation incited hysteria the ways ours does when the jackpot is in excess of $20 million. But then, it is Texas, the land of the bigger and better, right? Doesn’t it stand to reason that even our lottery mania would fall be more pronounced here than anywhere else? Why would we half-ass that when we do so many other equally silly/trivial things at a 500% higher level than, say, Arkansas? Don’t get me wrong, I love Texas and love being a Texan, but, come on.
As an aside, where exactly is the money earned from ticket sales going? When we started this idiocy, the State told us that it would be poured into education (Which I find mildly ironic—we don’t allow gambling in public schools, yet we’ll use gambling money to fund those same schools. Hmmm.). To date, we haven’t seen a penny of it, and that was, what, 11 years ago?
You’ve probably already figured it out, but I’m not a lottery player. Sure, when the jackpot gets obscenely large, I’ll buy a few tickets, what can it hurt? I use my soda money for the week, which really is healthier for me. But, frankly, I won’t buy a lottery ticket unless I’m completely sure I’m buying the winning numbers. Since I don’t time travel, that ain’t happening.

There's all this build-up to Christmas Eve/Day, all the churchy stuff, all the cooking, gathering, excitement of presents (if you still get excited about presents), maybe family coming in. Then, Eve/Day comes along, you have a great time, are happy and excited about everything going on. You eat too much and get "fat and happy" when someone hands you that second piece of rum cake. You go to bed warm and contented and feeling good.

Eight hours later, you wake up. Fat, achy, grumpy. Today is clean-up day and put away day. Get rid of the wrapping paper that looked so pretty under the tree and carry boxes out to the trash. (When I was little, I couldn't play with the new Christmas toys on the 26th until I cleaned my room. What a way to screw up the warm fuzzies.) Family goes home, leaving their trash with you. The worst part is the left-overs. It's true what they say, presentation is everything. All that food looked and smelled fabulous when you came to the table for Christmas dinner. Now, it's packed into tupperware containers and while it's still going to taste and smell just right, it's never going to be quite as visually appealing.

My mother would insert here that it's not the way Christmas looks or tastes that is the important part, it's the religious aspect of it and the joy of celebrating the baby in the manger. Well, yes, this is true and I won't discount that part. But even the first church service after Christmas is a bit of a let-down to me. My pastor (and lots of pastors I'm sure) is at his best Christmas Eve and Easter Morning. He's always very good, and I've never regularly worshipped with a better orator and his theology is top-notch. That doesn't change the fact this morning's sermon will not be his best offering. And heck, I don't blame him. He's tired. He just did 2 church services 36 hours ago and had his own family Christmas stuff going on. But somehow, this morning's service will be a let-down after the wonderment I beheld Christmas Eve.

Hell, maybe it's just me. I can put aside some of my cynicism for no more than about 72 hours at a time. Or maybe it's because today is the day we visit the side of the family that specializes in making others feel two inches tall. Seems that always takes place on the 26th, as well. What fun.

I just flashed through Amazon and discovered they are selling home defibrillators. This is that thing on "E.R." that they charge and then yell "clear" before placing the paddles on the momentarily dead person's chest. Everybody goes hands off for a second and the person's body does this jumping seizing motion as electric current is passed though it.

I understand the science behind it. Basically, the doctor is trying to "shock" the person's heart into restarting or leveling out in function, depending on the specific problem. I even understand that if someone has a sudden cardiac arrest there is a greater chance of survival if a defibrillator is used in the first 5 minutes. (Apparently, 50% of those suffering from a sudden heart attack will survive if a defibrillator is used in the first 5 minutes. After that point, the survival rate is 1%.) Obviously, I can see the pros of having one at home.

My problem is that these things are deadly if used incorrectly. Yes, the same can be said of guns or gas ovens. But frankly, a home defibrillation system is far more scary to me then having a gun in my home. There's safety measures for guns--safety catches or whatever they're called (can you tell I don't own a gun?), locking gun cabinets, the practice of hiding the ammunition in some other place than the gun is stored.

But the point behind a home defibrillator system is to be able to quickly use it should the need arise, God forbid. It's not like you can store the paddles somewhere else or something. It would defeat the purpose to have it broken down into parts and those parts separated. In an emergency, I really don't want my kids or husband to have to run all over the house getting all the parts of the machine that might save my life. If they are as A.D.D. as I am, I'll die before they finish the task.

I guess what scares me though about home defibrillator sets is that far more kids are emulating the good guys than the bad guys. Let's face it, the people on E.R. are hero-types (when the patient lives). Kids want to be like heroes, not like the losers. There's going to be a kid somewhere playing doctor with a friend who kills the friend because he "over-defibbed."

Sure, I may be overreacting. But the first time a kid accidently shot another kid with a gun and the national media caught wind of it, people were appalled. People were confused. People were pissed off. How in the world did a child get ahold of a gun in the first place?? Suddenly gun control became a major issue.

Maybe I've missed some important legislation or FDA guidelines (and please tell me if I have), but it seems to me that in another few years, when home defibrillator systems are relatively commonplace in homes across America, some child is going to die an innocent death and suddenly there will be nation-wide mother-driven organizations calling for severe regulations on the accursed things. Mothers Against Home Defibrillators.

"The term Foetus-in-fetu (FIF) was coined by Meckel[1] in the 18th century and is defined as a parasitic twin found within the abdomen of its sibling. In 1809, Young reported the first case of foetus in fetu. Since then sporadic cases have been reported. Foetus in Fetu is discovered most commonly in infancy as a retroperitoneal mass.[2] They may be totally asymptomatic.[3] Symptoms, if present, are related to mass effect and include abdominal distension, feeding difficulties, emesis, jaundice and dyspnoea.[3] In most cases FIF is present intra-abdominally in the upper part of the retroperitoneal space.[4] Rare locations like cranial cavity, pelvis, scrotal sac, sacro-coccygeal region, mesentery and right iliac fossa are also reported.[5] Usually they are one in number, but some cases of more than one have been reported.[5]"Nagar A, Raut AA, Narlawar RS. Foetus in fetu. J Postgrad Med [serial online] 2002 [cited 2004 Oct 11 ];48:133-4. Available from: Journal of Postgraduate Medicine

Now, here's why I've decided to share that slightly disgusting bit of info with you. I've been fascinated with the idea of fetus in fetu for a couple of weeks now, ever since I watched a show about it on Discovery Health Channel. While it's a physical malady, I think it could actually be used to describe a social or psychological problem.There's a line of thought I've had that lends the idea that human beings tend to be slightly partitioned psychologically. It's the same concept as "phone voice"--meaning that I can tell who my mother is on the phone with by the sound of her voice. Her mother gets one tone, my brother another, the pharmacist something totally different. We all do it.Now, the parts of my psyche that are well-developed (my emotional side but not necessarily my ability to emote) are two separate pieces of me (a la Ashlee Simpson). My work sense and the person I am at home are two distinct, complete, well-defined/formed individuals residing inside of me.But then there's people like my most recent ex-boyfriend, T. Socially, he's well-developed. Casually he's well-developed. His sense of work ethic, while it needs a great deal of remodeling, is developed. He's emotions are stunted. His emotional self is like a foetus in fetu. He actually appears to treat emotions as a parasite. Granted, he was raised by a mother who didn't show a lot of affection or emotion--not that she didn't have those at all, she just didn't show them much. He never learned how to show emotion when someone isn't standing in front of him. Frankly, I think the reason he was able to end things so suddenly and brusquely was because I wasn't with him for 2 weeks while he was at his mother's. The fact that he chose to do it via e-mail was because he knew that if he had to look at me and do it, he wouldn't have been able to do it, because he would've felt something. His "parasitic" feelings for me weren't feeding on him 6 states away.I challenge you:Find the something in you that is your foetus in fetu. I'll tell you mine. My inability to more often than not emote appropriately is a parasite in me. Hell, you may not have one at all and bravo for you for being a completely well-developed person. In my opinion, the minute I stop having one at all is when I want to have a chat with St. Peter.

I spent all day Sunday watching "From the Earth to the Moon." It's that movie tracing the race to the Moon that Tom Hanks produced. It wasn't just a good show, all 12+ hours of it, it also made me think. Occasionally, I like a movie that does that.

The people directly involved in the space program seem to have a specific quality. One that almost seems to be a prerequisite. It's not a quality that other jobs require, though it's sure to help a person succeed in those jobs. It's also guaranteed to earn a person a few wary-eyed looks from colleagues. What is this quality? Passion.

Those who sought the Moon were incredibly passionate. I don't believe the quality was overplayed for the sake of the movie. Great things can be (and have been) done by ordinary men with extraordinary imaginations, but not one of those men lacked passion.

You look back at those involved in the race to the Moon and you learn of their passion. Those men, those people, loved their jobs and performed them with pride and a drive that made it inevitable that they would reach their goal. And no one who ever felt the same passion could have ever questioned the outcome.

I'm one of those people who attaches meaning to damn near everything. I'm also emotionally driven. As I watched the various parts of "From the Earth to the Moon," I was hit with the idea that there was more than just a history lesson at stake in it. There's a life lesson.

We should all live our lives as passionately as those people who got Americans to the Moon. We should all do things with such pride--not to the point of being egomaniacal, but to the point of impressing upon others that we are proud of the things we do. (Now, I know there's things we do that we are not at all proud of, but maybe we should take pride in what we've learned from those things.)

We should love with such passion as those men, and expect absolutely no less from our lovers.

R apologized. It all boiled down to the same argument we've had time and again--words on a page (screen) can never emote. While his intentions were without focus, what appeared on the page very much bothered me. On more than one occasion I've shared some part of myself with him and come away feeling a bit foolish for opening up. This time, it took several days before I did, and it came via his blog. Yuck. This after he stressed that he thinks maybe we should "re-audition" for each other.Once I voiced my tentative thoughts and feelings, I let myself think a little about it. It certainly didn't hurt that after our conversation, I did stay the night and fall asleep in his arms. Whatever else is going on in my life, that is the safest I've felt before. But just letting me say those things (granted, it wasn't a long conversation or even in depth) and then curling up with me gave me a sense of safety, of no regrets for speaking. His blog post fucked that up for me.Actually, the real problem is that he forgot his own teachings about seemingly harmless posts. They aren't always harmless just because the writer sees no harm in them. The reader, in the absence of clear intent, must invoke his or her own emotions, which far too often are not the intended ones. One things leads to another and someone's offended or misguided.So, a word to the wise and the not so wise (in order that ye may become wise): Watch what you write. Those who are emotionally invested in your topic of choice may misunderstand your intent.

R’s been posting about me again. I should be flattered, I suppose, but I’m not terribly.

My boyfriend broke up with me last week. I was devastated, then calm, then pissed (because he showed his ass, and from his behavior you’d have thought it the size of a mack truck). I’m not grieving, there’s no reason to grieve a prick.

R's been posting about my "process" so to speak. He posted about the conversation we had the night he went with me to pick my things up from the asshole's house. I, at his urging, voiced my wonderings about the elusive "us." We dated for nearly a year about 2 years ago. When we broke up, we became the best of friends, and yes, we had benefits. Lovely benefits. But the wonderings I voiced had little to do with the benefits.

He said he got it..but his blog reads differently. Why must men screw around like that?

Pardon the rant, I just read that post of his and had to spill.

*****************

Moving on. Do you recall your school bus driver, or at least have a vague memory of what bus drivers were rumored to be like? I had a run in with a real doozie this weekend (I coach speech and debate and we had a tournament this weekend.). I've had bus drivers that were total jerks to students, but never one that was a bitch to the adults on the bus. I can't recall the last time anyone yelled at me at 6 a.m. on a Saturday morning. Probably the last damn time I was a student on the bus.

Went to Houston last night with R. Actually, some friends of mine from work were going to a performance of a local big band, along the lines of Ricky’s band in those old “I Love Lucy” shows. A friend of mine from high school plays tenor sax in the band, and I now work with his mother. Since R enjoys big band music, and my boyfriend’s out of town for a few more days, I grabbed him up for an escort.

Picked him up at his house, and then went for dinner. Somewhere between exiting the freeway and knocking on his door, I decided to go ahead and do what I’ve talked about for months. I got my belly button pierced. Really tame seeing as how I previously had a nipple piercing.

Dinner was to calm my anxiety before actually letting somebody poke holes in me. Didn’t help just a whole hell of a lot. I realized that when the guy (Thom, excellent guy if I may so myself) asked if I had any questions and I giggled really loud and said no. He looked real quick and asked if I was really sure. Uh, yeah, jus take my credit card and let’s get on with this.

Now, I’m not big into piercings really. The long-ago nipple ring was an ex-boyfriend’s idea and it was gone almost as soon as he was. I don’t like to look at piercings on others and they really don’t do anything for me—the belly button thing’s just something I’ve always talked about and it’s harmless. I have to say though, that I found myself studying a picture of a suspension (one of those things where someone’s got piercings at particular points all of the body—back, legs, whatever—and they are suspended by those piercings. Yuck.). As R and I talked with Thom, we discovered that he is on a team that travels all over and does suspensions. He’d been in Hollywood a few weeks ago and does the big HPEP show every year. Oddly enough, this made me feel less worried about getting my own boring old navel ring.

So, a few deep breaths and one unexpected pain later, I was done. I now know that I’ve got really thick skin, literally. Thom said I had the toughest skin he’d ever seen on a white person. I’m not sure that’s a compliment, but maybe I can put it on my resume’.

I also now know that a 14-gauge bar through my tummy skin actually feels like shoving one of those thick kindergarten pencils through my skin.

Somewhere out there is an idiot who actually knows he/she is an idiot. Not only does this person know, but this person can explain why it is that he or she is just not blessed with whatever it is that makes us not idiots. I want to meet this person, because I want this phenomenon to be explained to me.I can't handle idiots. I'm by far not the smartest person in the world, nor am I immune from my own idiot moments. I do however rarely show my ass to the world. At least not on a daily basis.It just seems to me that I'm often placed in working situations that defy reason, largely because of the inordinate idiocy that is just seeping from the walls. My assistant is a prime example. When it's slow in the library, I pass the time (unless I have legitimate work to do) by documenting her idiotic actions and observations until I find myself overwhelmed. It only takes a little while. Like today. The copier went on power save. Now, she's in charge of the copier--it doesn't like me for some reason, so I don't mess with it. She got up to run some copies for a student and couldn't figure out why the copier wouldn't make the copies. I knew what had happened, I'd heard it power down for the power save, but I decided to see how long it would take her to figure it out. Before it was all over with, she'd crawled around on her hands and knees looking at the power supply and surge protectors, had turned off her computer (to let the copier have more electricity?), called our help desk, and finally run off to the front office to run the copies on the machine up there. The whole time she was whining "I don't know what's wrong with it, it just won't work. It acts like it's been turned off (duh), J come help me." I at first pretended to just not hear her. Then I feigned ignorance--I mean, the machine never works when I mess with it.But as soon as she walked out, heading for the office, I hopped and turned the machine on. It's nice to know that the stupid can always provide a little entertainment on a boring day.

Superiority isn't something that I typically seek out. I rarely try to exert it over someone else because I wind up feeling guilty and a little childish.

That being said, I've taken a secret pride in being a bit more technologically advanced than my best friend. I've been proud about because of everyone else I'm that close to, I'm the one scratching her head and looking confused when they start talking that techie stuff. (Well, except my grandmother, but one should be superior to one's grandmother in this area.).

So, it's been eating me. I do web design for several educational sites, own a kick-ass computer (even my love, the computer god, envies my computer), can talk anybody through the intricacies of Microsoft (and there are so many, aren't there?), own all kinds of gizmos for the computer...and I'm feeling small because my best friend has a blog he's been working on for a month. It makes absolutely no sense, but as I read his most recent ramblings this morning, I just couldn't take it anymore. I literally felt like I'd been one-upped and had to remedy it immediately.

Here it is...huh. Since he's "ahead of me" on number of posts, I'll have to one-up him by doing some design work.

It only bothers me a little that I'm feeling a bit childish. Then again, I work with high school students, it's probably rubbed off from them.